


Four Times Blaine Anderson was Oblivious About Someone Ogling His Ass—and One Time He Wasn't

by GSJwrites



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 14:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7108492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GSJwrites/pseuds/GSJwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title is pretty self-explanatory. Shameless fetishizing of Blaine Anderson's bodaceous booty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Blaine Anderson was Oblivious About Someone Ogling His Ass—and One Time He Wasn't

**Author's Note:**

> Oy. I haven't written fic in ages, and I've never written a Five Times fic. Inspiration for Blaine's "I'm right here" convo with Sam courtesy of the woman on the next blanket over at last weekend's Bottle Rock Festival, who lost her husband at the beer stands.

**High School**

They were the best of buds. And Sam was proud of it, man. _Blaine’s a solid dude, you know? Upstanding, or upright or…you know, solid—a good guy._

When he needed an idea for a project about movements that changed the course of American history— _movements?_ —Blaine had the idea that made sense and even helped him out. The essay on how superheroes conflicts reflect…well… _society_? Off the charts. And Blaine, showing up in his Nightbird costume to help with the presentation, scored him his first A in U.S. History.

_Solid._

Blaine had his back—in class, in the choir room, you name it. The fact that Blaine was on the sidelines in a Cheerios uniform instead of on the field with the guys led to some wise ass snark from the team at first. Blaine wasn’t shy about who he was, and the team started to fall into old, bad habits when his workout time overlapped their own in the school gym. It stopped the moment they saw Blaine take it out—whatever _it_ was—on a heavy bag in the gym one day. When they realized the dude could fight—and heard rumors about the Dalton Fight Club—it stopped. He earned their respect on his own and didn’t even need Sam’s failed attempt at a football team intervention.

_Solid._

He had been welcome in their workouts ever since, a presence in the gym, even giving the guys tips on “getting outside their head” with yoga. Sam wasn’t sure exactly why he’d want to be outside his head, but he trusted Blaine, and gave it a shot. The fact that he fell asleep on the mat must have been a sign that he’d done something right, and he threw for two touchdowns and a two-point conversion that week, so he would take Blaine’s advice as gospel.

That Blaine was openly gay and he was absolutely not was never a factor in their friendship for Sam, not a bit. Maybe that’s what Blaine had meant by outside his head, because his mind had started to wander like crazy during this yoga session.

And as Blaine led his little impromptu class by folding over into Downward Facing Dog in front of the group, Sam realized that Blaine had one curvaceous backside.

Like seriously, where did that come from? Blaine was wearing short shorts, a la Larry Bird or a young Michael Jordan. Old school—tight, gripping his hips and thighs. And Sam had to admit, his buddy had a bodacious booty. Seriously, it was exceptional.

_Solid._

He turned his head to one side, then the other, trying to puzzle the mystery out. Blaine didn’t play major sports. _Seriously, polo?_ Blaine claimed it was a great butt and thigh workout. He must be on to something.

Not that he was checking him out. Really. It was just...hard to miss. And come to think of it, he did wear some pretty fucking tight pants like, all the damn time.

“Sam? You okay?”

Sam blinked a couple of times, and snapped to attention.

“What?”

“We’re done here.” Blaine nodded at the rest of the class, all headed toward the lockers and showers. He tossed a towel at Sam, hitting him in the chest. “Maybe you need to sit down for a minute.”

“Naw, I’m good,” Sam said. 

Blaine turned to follow the class to the lockers, and Sam spun his towel into a tight coil, snapping it at Blaine’s ass. Blaine stopped dead in his tracks and turned to Sam.

"Seriously, buddy. Well done. I'm impressed," Sam said, draping the towel around his neck.

Blaine just stared as Sam headed toward the showers.

 

**College**

It wasn't his fault, not a chance. Blame Mr. Butt Cheeks from Heaven.

It was The Ass that chose to sit down in from of him at the very first session of the twice-weekly _Erotic Symbolism in English Literature_ study group. And once they chose their seats that first day, that was where they were to stay for the remainder of the semester.

And Sebastian had definitely chosen his seat—the one with the absolutely delicious view of Sir Ass-A lot.

For the time being, he was willing to sit back and take a gander, to put off the inevitable. But let’s face it, Booteous Maximus chose those skinny slacks for a reason, just like he’d picked that desk with the absolutely glorious view. This was an invitation, and that shy school boy routine—let’s just say that now matter how much it turned him on, Sebastian wasn’t buying it.

But he’d be delighted to role play it.

Sebastian simply accepted it for the invitation he knew it to be, and made a point of showing up a little late to park himself right behind that plump, delicious, just-waiting-for-someone-to make-it-their-personal-pillow ass.

Just give it time, there's no way he'll say no.

Those bow ties and the tighter-than-intended-but-dayum pants—every, fucking, day—screamed for attention. And they had his.

One day, fire engine red. Another, electric blue. One day, Captain Asstastic went subtle with mustard yellow. It must have been fall. Whatever the color, that ass was waving its arms in the air for _look at me_ attention. No, it didn’t have arms, but whatever.

Just fucking look at it. Rich, plump. An innocent face with an ass that said I'm yours, all night. Oh yeah, buddy, just you wait.

And there was no way in hell those pants were meant for the girls in the room. The cheerleaders who giggled, then laughed, than cackled, hanging on his every word. Nope. Those poor, clueless girls.

"Sebastian?"

Coffee, that was innocent enough.

"Um, excuse me?"

He'd go for that, and then...

"Um, Sebastian, we're supposed to be pass these back?"

Bootylicious was looking at him, eyes bright and wide, test prompts in hand, looking... confused.

"Sorry, drifted off." He held out his hand. His eyes drifted down, one last time. "Must need some coffee."

 

**The Job in the Art Department**

The new kid was starting today. He was green and unskilled, but he was just so damned earnest with those Bambi eyes that she must have had a moment of weakness. She couldn’t fathom another reason why she would hire some musical theater geek to help run the office in the Art Department. _Her_ Art Department.

Becky Jackson’s Damn Art Department.

There he stood, application and razor-thin resume in hand, inappropriately dressed like some weird hybrid of barista meets gogo dancer meets Mister Rogers and _Hell yes you are hired._

He said something about trying to make it on his own and how he was willing to do whatever she needed around the department. Something about grunt work. _Whew. If she wasn’t on board before, she sure was now._

“Blaine, our model didn’t show up for the figure drawing class today. I need you to fill in.”

She tried to sound aloof, nonchalant, poking her nose into her paperwork as if it was no big deal.

Blaine’s eyes grew wide.

“Umm. _What?_ ”

I just need a model for a class. They need practice drawing the human form.

“But…”

“There’s a bonus.”

She let him lead the way to the classroom, shuffling his feet as he stood at the front of the class.

He removed his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair.

“Take it off,” Becky barked, grabbing a chair, dead center. “And turn it around.”

Blaine’s face froze.

The class looked on, unaffected and maybe a little bored.

Becky could scarcely contain her joy.

 

**Spin Class**

_Spin class. Yes, this was the trick. Hard work. Sweat. Bodies, hot and... ah, shit. Right here, mister. Get that Lycra right there, on that empty one. That’s right. Bike eight, the one right in front of me._

_Aaw, such a sweet smile. He looks like a Really Nice Guy._

_Now back it up, mister!_

Spin cycle might be great exercise, but Tina found it terribly... distracting—especially since this new dark hair-Lycra-and-holy-shit-check-out-that-butt guy turned up in class.

_He's straight, right? Look at how he smiled at you: sweet, just enough shy. Dreamy. He has_ _no idea what's back there, does he?_

Her neighbor to the right rolled her eyes and shook her head. _Not him, honey._

_Forget her. What does she know?_

_Of course he's straight._

**The picnic**

Blaine knelt on the ground, bent over, tugging at the corners of his blanket, making it straight and even in the Central Park grass. He left just enough walking room on each side to be a courteous neighbor to the couples picnicking around him, lounging in a sea of quilts and blankets as they awaited the free summer concert.

Damn it. It would be a lot easier to set up if Sam would hurry back from the concession stands.

He stood, wiggling a little to adjust his shorts, and began to scan the crowd. He turned a full circle as he raised his phone to his ear and shielded his eyes from the setting sun.

“Come on, Sam. Pick up.”

He stumbled as he completed the circle, tripping over something—a leg. A kind of leggy leg attached to… _oh, hello._

The couple behind him—he assumed they were together— were curled in close, intimate, leaning heads together as if sharing a secret. They were lounging on what looked like a handmade vintage quilt. It was a classic design, tasteful and appropriate for a summer evening in the park.

The woman was pretty, lively, and occasionally loud. He tiny body had a way of taking up a lot of space. Her companion, a man who had hit just the right note of evening elegance-meets-summer weekend—appeared to be silenced by her lengthy play-by-play of a recent audition. He looked right at Blaine, or maybe… _No, just because he raised his eyes to meet yours doesn’t mean he was checking you out, Blaine._

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to kick you,” he said.

“Kick away,” the man said. “I’m fine.”

He smiled. Blaine might have swooned a little.

His face was unreadable. Smirky? Secretive? Content? Blinded by the setting sun? Blaine couldn’t tell, but the man had his attention, at least until Blaine’s phone buzzed and jerked to life.

“Where are you? Where am _I_? I’m right where you left me. Sam? Sam?... Damn it.”

He looked down at his phone: no signal.

He scanned the park again. Sam couldn’t have gone far. He was just buying a beer. But then again, there were girls. Always, girls. And the one constant in Sam’s life was that he was easily distracted.

Blaine dropped again to his knees and stretched forward, setting his arms along the grass, supporting himself on his elbows as he sent text after text.

There were moments when he swore he felt eyes on him. He turned again, half expecting to see Sam, but all he saw was the girl, giggling and the man, blushing a little, glancing up.

He tried Sam again, the phone this time. An hour was too long for a beer run. He's given up on texts. Sam just doesn't seem to have the knack of it, or has it shut down. But he'll pick up a call.

So Blaine stood again in the sea of wool and straw and batik, hoping to catch a glance of his friend before the show started. Finally, he connected.

"I'm right here," he said, trying hard not to lose his patience. "I'm right where I was when you left. Look for the green flag, Sam. No, they're all marked "Wine and Beer." Look for the one with the green flag."

He waved his arms again, stretching high in hopes he could be seen above the crowd.

That's when he heard it: giggles, from somewhere behind him.

He turned again and looked down. The girl, actually a twenty-something woman, was biting her lip. The man was laughing, and blushing, and looking right at him. He was stretched out on the picnic blanket leaning back on his arms—swaying just enough to hint that he'd had a fair share of the wine from the near-empty bottle in their basket.

"I'm right here, Sam. I _literally have not moved. ... Yes, I know what literally means. It's a figure of speech... Twelve o'clock, Sam. **Twelve o'clock!** "_

He scanned the area outside the beer stands, but couldn’t help himself. He looked down at the blanket, again and again. And each time, the man looked back: a grin one time, a wave another…

"I _am_ standing up, Sam."

_Damn these Brooks Brothers shorts._ Maybe they were too snug for picnicking, but they worked with this shirt and Blaine liked the completed look. Still, he really wasn’t enjoying this wedgie. He shifted his hips. First to the left, then to the right—just enough to dislodged it. No one would notice.

_Oh my god it's beautiful._

Blaine cocked his head to one side. It was a lovely day, to be sure, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. No tangerine sunset, no wisp of cloud in the sky. He didn't know what the admittedly attractive man was so enamored with, but it was as good an excuse as any to turn again, maybe make a little eye contact and..

_Ohmygod._

Blaine smiled again, a modest acknowledgement of his adorably tipsy neighbor.

"Sorry. I don't mean to block your view. My friend just can't remember where we sat. I’m trying to get his attention.”

"Oh, don't you worry. You just keep doing what you're doing," he said, waving his hand in the air, as if directing Blaine to turn around.

The backup musicians took the stage and Blaine’s phone rang again.

“I’m at the green flag, Sam. … **_There’s only one green flag_**. You can’t miss it. What do you mean, you’re going to stay put? I can’t eat all this salmon salad by myself, Sam. Okay, fine.”

Blaine dropped to the ground with a thud, and leaned forward to open the picnic tote.

“There should be a law,” he heard behind him. He turned around to see the man looking at… well, there was no mistaking what he was looking at. Blaine wanted to be annoyed, but realized he was okay with it— ** _really_** okay with it.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“Oh, you’re friend. It’s criminal to pass up on salmon salad,” he said. He rose to his knees and leaned forward toward Blaine. I wanted to make a nice heirloom tomato quiche, but my friend was running late and insisted on Subway.”

“Noooo,” Blaine said, in feigned shock. “Say it isn’t so.”

“…and now she’s hogging the blanket.”

“Terrible,” Blaine said. “You know, it looks like I have some extra salad, and a whole lot of blanket.” He extended his hand. “I’m Blaine.”

“Kurt,” the man said, shaking hands, seemingly stopping time. “Is that an invitation?”

“Maybe a selfish one,” Blaine said. He reached forward into the bag again, handing the food over to Kurt. He leaned in close and lowered his voice.

“If you’re going to spend the night talking about my butt, then sit up here so you can whisper it in my ear.”


End file.
